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It’s a fine world, though rich in hardships at times. ~ Larry McMurtry

There’s a sweetness in the lament of a mourning dove (Zenaida macroura) that makes the sorrow bearable, and believable. Theirs isn’t an pop tune about a hookup with a hook, or a power ballad tale of infatuation, thrill, and transitory heartbreak. When mourning doves call I hear a country-western melody about spacious, isolated landscapes and complicated lives composed of joy and calamity, love and betrayal, not to mention good and evil that can’t be easily differentiated by the color of someone’s hat.

Country music has had it’s share of singers who could wail with convincing anguish on stage, then party ’til the cows came home once the show was over… so I have to wonder if the mourning dove’s high lonesome yodel —coo-OO, COO, coo — is simply part of the act. After all, that grievous angel cry is replaced by a jaunty whistle of wings every time they launch skyward.

Plus, doves are rarely alone and don’t seem to have much time in their lives to feel lonely. The whole clan is known to grow up fast (reaching sexual maturity at about 85 days old) and then pair up into monogamous ’til-death-do-we-part couples who take the directive to be fruitful and multiply seriously… as in up to twelve chicks in a single season serious (six broods of two chicks each). Both Mom and Dad are doting, active parents who share grocery shopping and child care equally, rarely leaving their babes unsupervised by at least one adult at all times.

The end of the lovey-dovey breeding season shouldn’t bring on the lonesome blues either, because that’s when the community flocks together in a big way. They go on group picnics, gobbling up seed in open fields or from the ground beneath backyard feeders until their crops are full, then settle onto fences, or walls, or telephone wires to digest the meal and the days events. They go drinking together, although for doves that means sipping water from puddles and bird baths rather than throwing back with Jose Quervo at the neighborhood saloon.

The community even sleeps together— literally, not euphemistically — roosting in trees and other protected areas. Comforted by the safety of numbers, they’ll drop their heads comfortably between raised shoulders rather than tucking in beneath a wing or over the back as so many other birds do.

Despite all the social network support, there is a darker side to the life of a mourning dove that may explain their doleful song — they often end up on the wrong end of a gun. Mourning doves are abundant, with a population estimated to be comprised of nearly 500 million individuals, but they are classified as a game bird and are the most frequently hunted species in North America. As many as 70 million are shot by hunters each year. Those who dodge the bullet still have to contend with the threat of lead poisoning from shot picked up from the ground while feeding.

Despite what their name implies, though, when one of these doves becomes a widow or widower they don’t spend a lot of time in Brokenheartsville bemoaning their newly-single status. In fact, they pair up again pdq. After all, ya can’t be fruitful all by your lonesome.

There’s a wonderful word—one of my favorites— to describe creatures that are active at dawn and dusk. Crepuscular. It’s a popular time of day for many species, so the great outdoors gets lively when the light is low, and it’s a great time to see wildlife.

That is, unless you’re in a car.

Challenging light conditions can conceal an animal near the road and reduce a driver’s response time when something darts out. While driving at twilight, it’s important to scan the shoulders for movement or for the telltale shine of eyes reflecting headlights. Vehicles are a constant threat to wildlife, and my time running a large urban rehabilitation center provided more than enough evidence to support that claim.

Of course, I should know better. But, lost in thought on my way to the mall, I didn’t see the striped skunk (Mephitis mephitis) until he had sauntered into the middle of my lane. It wasn’t a major thoroughfare so I had the road to myself and, luckily, I wasn’t going very fast. I had time to cede the right of way. Good thing, too, because I knew better than to expect this black-and-white tough guy to blink. Fact is, he stopped and turned to stare down my Subaru.

The great horned owl is a striped skunk’s only one serious predator. Everyone else makes a wide detour, at least after being sprayed the first time. Since this particular crossing guard was a kit, the whole world has maintained a respectful distance—why wouldn’t he expect an automobile to follow suit?

If there’s enough time, skunks will usually give those who cross their path fair warning. According to mephitologist (skunk scientist) Jerry Dragoo of the University of New Mexico, a whole series of threat behaviors may occur before Pepe le Pew resorts to firing the big gun. Striped skunks will stomp both front feet, charge forward a few steps and then stamp, or back up while dragging their front feet before spraying the object of their wrath. They can discharge their weapon while looking you in the eye, using an over-the-shoulder stance or even a handstand.

I’ve heard stories in which a skunk was taking his or her time crossing the road, or was dining on some previously flattened wildlife, and clearly saw the car coming. Drivers have reported observing the kind of threat posturing described by Dr. Dragoo, although they did not recognize it as such. As their vehicle drew closer and closer, they wonder why the animal just stands there. Surely it will scurry off the road… any second now!

Instead, the skunk holds its ground, takes aim, and fires… and in the process becomes another scavenger’s meal. Gone, but not forgotten. Not until the fragrance fades, at least.

I’ve got good skunk karma, I guess. Either that, or this particular stinker was feeling mellow. Thirty seconds of holding my breath… then he decided to continue on his way and I escaped getting doused. My luck ran out a few minutes later at the mall, though. Still thinking about my skunk encounter, I swear I never saw that perfume saleswoman stamp her feet.

I found a blue jay feather this morning while I was out walking my dog, Dash. That isn’t remarkable — jays are a common species here, and because the color blue is relatively scarce in the natural environment (except for the sky) it’s eye-catching. I’ve started an informal collection, compiled on some shelves near my front door. I admire them on a semi-regular basis while running a Swiffer™ over household surfaces, and when I have to pick them up off of the floor because I’m cleaning like it’s a timed event.

As I ambled along, spinning the feather between my thumb and forefinger, I could feel it lift at the slightest breeze, attempting to return to the sky. I started thinking about the versatility of this keratin assemblage, this trinket both delicate and durable, this multi-tasker extraordinaire.

I’m well aware that researchers say multi-tasking is a myth, at least when it comes to the human brain. We only think we’re doing several things at once, the scientists tell us; actually, we’re just toggling back and forth from one thing to another, which reduces our mental efficiency and even lowers (temporarily) our IQ. I’m mostly convinced by these studies but, full disclosure, neuroscience isn’t my field so I’m only familiar with what’s summarized and reported by the media… and by “media” I mean NPR. In light of all that has been reported, though, I find it even more fascinating and frustrating that handling more than one task is trivial for so many other, less admired, anatomical features. Wouldn’t you expect our much-lauded gray matter to be every bit as masterful at multi-tasking as, say, a feather?

Think about it…

First of all, feathers allow birds to fly — a feat humans have still not managed to accomplish, even though we reassure each other constantly that we have the largest, most amazingly intelligent brains on Earth (clearly, though, ours is not the most self-confident computer on the planet).

Now, before you think I’ve somehow overlooked the fact that thousands of human beings are flying from one global location to another all day, every day, and have been doing so for quite some time, let me interject that human beings have, without question, figured out how to make machines fly (with the aid of metallurgy and fossil fuels, of course). But we have never, not once, jumped up from the ground or launched from a tree branch to flap off into the wild blue yonder. Superman doesn’t count because he isn’t human, and wing-suits don’t count either because that’s gliding, not flying. Humans ride, birds fly, and they do it by flapping feather-covered arms, using renewable energy sources like insects, berries, seeds, and sugar water.

Next, consider that feathers also provide thermal insulation. This should come as no surprise because people use bird feathers to keep warm, too. We stuff clouds of down and feathers in-between layers of rip-stop polyester made from recycled plastic water bottles to manufacture vests and parkas. Then we slip on the garment, zip up the front, and head out into the elements to do some birdwatching.

Birds can waterproof their feathers with bio-oils stored in a convenient uropygial/preen gland at the base of their tail. This is handy because, having allocated their arms to flying, they can’t hold a spray can of Scotchgard™. Nor are they able to use hammers, saws, and other tools to build a roof overhead that will shield them from rain, sleet, and snow, or to build a boat when they want to go fishing.

But wait— there’s more! Bet you didn’t know that feathers are also an effective communication device. See, humans use an broad assortment of products, including designer label clothing, team-sponsored gear, our vehicles, digital devices, and jewelry to make nonverbal announcements about our group affiliations and availability.

Birds accomplish the same thing using their birthday feather-suits. The colors and patterns they wear say more than any Tinder profile or list of Who’s Who ever could. Female birds assess a suitor’s sartorial presentation to determine if he’s her type, and male birds parade their plumage to show the ladies they’ve got the goods to be a quality life-partner. Or maybe just a handsome hookup, depending on how the species swings. Those same feathers can be used to warn a trespasser that this territory has been claimed, or warn a romantic competitor to back off.

Kind of puts the old uni-tasking cerebral cortex to shame, don’t you think? And all this time I’ve been under the impression that “featherhead” was an insult.

Productivity. A word that has long enjoyed favored status in U.S. culture. Americans are always trying to do more work in less time so we can… do even more work. We purchase time-saving apps and appliances and then fill the promised free-time that closed the deal with new projects and expectations.

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As the saying goes, when you’re a hammer everything looks like a nail. Of course, that assume you stop the work of pounding away occasionally to look around.

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I aspire to a zen “be here now” life but most days I miss the mark by a wide margin. Instead, I hammer down each nail on my to-do list, usually thinking about the next task or the one after that before completing the current one (and often ending up with a swollen thumb as a result). Yesterday was no exception.

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Until, suddenly, it was.

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Exiting my car with plastic shopping bag handles queued up along my forearms I charged down the sidewalk, mental blinders on, jaw set. Still, I did notice the row of tall limelight hydrangeas that hug my red brick building slouching beneath their load of heavy, fragrant, pale chartreuse blooms buzzing with activity. “Honey bees,” I assumed dismissively, since a nearby restaurant keeps several hives, and continued on without breaking my stride.

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Then I was blinded by the light of a sunbeam reflecting off an iridescent copper-green carapace.

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I stopped in my tracks, oblivious to the increasing numbness in my hands, and watched one green June beetle (Cotinis nitida), then several more, stumble drunkenly around and through the blossoms. Glancing at other blooms I saw all kinds of colorful insects had shown up for the banquet, including other beetles and bees, butterflies, moths, flies, spiders, and wasps. The realization that I was, yet again, missing my life for the sake productivity hit me over the head like a ball-peen.

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Time to take a deep breath and smell the hydrangeas. I rushed inside, left my groceries in a heap on the kitchen table, hurried back downstairs, out the door…

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and…

slowed…

waaaaay…

down.

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I spent the next hour losing track of time while I conducted an informal census of bug life in the flower gardens around my building and neighborhood. My goal was enjoyment, not identification. Eyes opened wide. Really seeing.

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How easy it is to forget that being unproductive is sometimes the most important work of all.

The 2015 class of Canada geese (Branta canadensis) naval aviators started flight school this week!

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I’ve been watching these youngsters on daily dog-walks in the park since early May. When they first showed up I noticed their resemblance, in size and coloration, to the yellow puffball flowers of the American sycamores (Platanus occidentalis) towering above. There were about 8-10 adults living in and around the lake and two pairs successfully hatched large clutches, the second batch about 10 days after the first. The whole flock pitched in to keep the cautious but curious brood within a protective circle, long black necks and heads swiveling like periscopes scanning the horizon for imminent threats.

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Every morning’s stroll includes a peek into the classroom, watching as the new recruits move through basic training. First lesson: water = safety. Mandatory swimming lessons for all sailors! Initially, members of the new crew were skeptical, needing some strongly worded encouragement from a drill instructor to take the plunge.

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In no time at all, though, they had their sea-legs and formed a flotilla.

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Next, the unit practiced how to parade. The slow, unhurried pace set by the adults was clearly intended to convey respectability and prestige, and they pulled it off with stately ease. The trainees were another story entirely. Try as they might to imitate their elders, casual dignity is mighty difficult to achieve when your growing body hasn’t quite caught up to your oversized feet—ask any 12 year old boy wearing size 11 sneakers. The slightest break in concentration and the whole company piled up like dominos.

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There was so much to learn!How to keep their uniforms squared away…

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…calisthenics to strengthen those important pectoral muscles…

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…choosing the right mess hall…

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…not to mention growing by leaps and bounds. Before long, it was time to strap on the black aviator helmet and take off!

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Their first flights were brief and aquatic; buoyant new pilots seem to find over-water touch-and-go’s less intimidating. What’s the worse that can happen? You ditch, you get wet. A bruised ego heals a lot faster than broken bones.

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Next, the flight instructors lead youngsters on low, circular cruises around the park, honking encouragement all along the way. Landing on turf requires more skill and daring..

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… as well as greater maneuverability to avoid trees, lamp posts, power lines, and buildings. Practice makes perfect but there can be some embarrassing mistakes along the way.One missed turn can result in an unintended landing.

The eastern gray treefrog is one of many performers at nightly summer concerts.

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One of my favorite things about summer is the free outdoor concerts. I’m not talking about local bands that occasionally perform from the park gazebo even though they can be a pleasant accompaniment to my evening dog walk. No, nothing says summer like the insect-amphibian jam sessions that take place almost every evening.

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I’ve moved quite a lot in my life and have been delighted to learn that each place I’ve lived long enough to grow accustomed to—six U.S. states and a Scandinavian country—has a timbre and cadence all its own, distinctive to that specific habitat in a certain continent on a singular planet in an expanding universe. It’s the soundtrack of home, wherever home may be at that particular time in one’s life.

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The musicians start warming up as the light begins to fade. They’ve been playing the same basic tune since I was a child so I immediately recognize the overture. By 7:00-7:30p the instruments are tuned and ready to swing.

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Field crickets (Gryllus spp.) establish the beat with their forewings, kind of like a finger-snap that varies from cool to hot depending on the atmosphere.

As the evening progresses, though, the cicadas and other insects cede the stage to the second act—the frogs and toads… possibly because these headliners have been known to devour the opening act!

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The band is made up primarily of horns and percussion. This isn’t jazz—there’s not much in the way of improvisation and the musicians don’t really take turns letting one another shine during a solo. It can be difficult to identify the featured players, in part because the cast keeps changing; there are fair-weather performers, some have stormy temperament, and others don’t like to travel far from their favorite watering hole. Still, there are some easily recognized voices.

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Northern cricket frogs (Acris crepitant) step in to set the pace abandoned by their namesake insect. I’ve seen their call described as pebbles bouncing against one another but to me it’s a metal cabana—chain wrapped around a wood cylinder and shaken, not stirred.

The green frog (Lithobates clamitans), on the other hand, is a true traditionalist—no electric bass for this fellow, or even an upright acoustic. Listen carefully and you’ll hear his homage to a single string and washtub.

Heat and Humidity have resumed their annual one-upmanship contest here in Arch City. Being outdoors mid-day can be unpleasant, so my canine companion and I have been trying to beat them to the starting blocks by heading out for our daily constitutional as early as possible.

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We stroll two blocks, past grand Italianate manors and restored Victorian row houses, to a handsome mid-19th century city park—the oldest in the Louisiana Purchase Territory. Paved pathways meander through 30 acres of enormous shade trees and lovingly tended flower beds, past fountains, a graceful bridge, and a gazebo, all within the protective embrace of the original cast iron perimeter fence. There’s even a lake, complete with fish, semi-aquatic turtles, a small flotilla of Canada geese (Branta canadensis), mallards (Anas platyrhynchos), and a scattering of former Easter ducklings. And what Victorian-era water-feature would be complete without a few imperious mute swans (Cygnus color)?

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The park is a hub of activity in afternoon and early evening. The sound of vehicles, emergency sirens, construction and commerce seep in from the surrounding streets, combining with the squeals of children blowing off steam at the playground, flag football players shouting audibles, or a crowd cheering at vintage baseball game, depending on the season. Fiercely determined joggers make their appointed rounds. Dogs check messages on trees and bushes while their humans check smartphones. Families gather ’round a grill, young lovers picnic on hand-me-down quilts, wedding rings are exchanged, friends play frisbee, and there’s even the occasional free open-air concert or movie night under the stars.

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Most mornings, though, it feels like a quiet private garden. The park has become a favorite since my homecoming a couple years ago. GPS may pin my location as near the center of a bustling city but the dappled stillness of this urban oasis, complimented with the music of dancing water and splashes of birdsong, sets an unhurried tone. By the end of our walk I’m ready to step off of cobblestones onto the Information Highway and into my 21st century life.

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During a recent dawn stroll around the lake, I spotted a slim solitary figure standing still as a statue at the water’s concrete edge; a great egret (Ardea alba Linnaeus) doesn’t exactly blend in with the surroundings. There’s simply no point in trying when you’re a 3’ tall bird with a serpentine neck, clad in your breeding season best: extravagant lacy white plumes, a saffron bill, lime-green lores, and long jet-black legs and feet.

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My heart leapt—not because the bird was beautiful (although it was), and not because I didn’t yet have one on my life list (I’ve seen many). No, it was seeing a great egret in this place that brought tears of joy to my eyes.

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When Lafayette Park was first dedicated, it would have been a rare sight indeed to see those elegant courtship aigrettes on anything other than a lady’s hat. Great egrets were hunted almost to the point of extinction to satisfy fashion’s dictate that a proper, self-respecting adult female must never be seen in public without a pile of millinery fabric, lace, ribbons, flowers, feathers, and bird body parts balanced on her head. Egret plumes, in particular, were all the rage.

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Concern over the looming disappearance of this and other bird species allowed a fledgling U.S. conservation movement to take flight in the early 20th century. By 1918, the National Audubon Society and others successfully pressured Congress into passing and funding the Migratory Bird Treaty Act. It was our first serious wildlife protection legislation, and by any measure the Act has been a spectacular success. Many species on the verge of extinction 100 years ago are now doing quite well. And while hats and “fascinators” are currently experiencing a small uptick in popularity after a decades-long fall from favor, albeit without the wild bird feathers that graced predecessors, their numbers pale in comparison to the great egret renaissance. Although exact population numbers are hard to find, the species is now classified as “common,” numbering in the tens of thousands of breeding pairs, at minimum.

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On this morning, though, it was just a solitary great egret, a noble wire fox terrier (Queen Victoria herself kept one as a pet), and me, the least pedigreed of the group, standing at the intersection of past, present, and future.

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I spent a long moment contemplating the significance of a stately creature’s return, and my own, to this historic midwestern park, watching as the bird gazed intently into the water, meditating on the play of light and liquid.

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Or perhaps something both deeper and more practical. Like breakfast.

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Brought back to the here and now by a nudge from my own stomach, I turned toward home. But not before saying over my shoulder, “It was great to see you again—come back anytime!”

The male downy woodpecker is a dapper urban resident (iStock, used with permission)

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Rushing out the door, I went over the list in my head. Workout pants and layered tees—check. Running shoes—check. Coat, hat, gloves—check. Keys and sunglasses—check. MP3 player—check. Everything was in order as I pulled out of the driveway.

Or so I thought.

Fifteen minutes later I pulled into a parking space at the Power Valley Conservation Nature Center, a 112-acre oasis in suburban St. Louis created by the Missouri Department of Conservation with hilly trails perfect for raising my heart rate for 30-40 minutes. But as I stepped out of the car and began to gather my gear I realized with dismay I’d left behind a critical component—my earbuds.

The thought of a run without my workout mix, and without any caffeine in my system either, was disheartening. I need the motivation of a musical pulse. But I didn’t have time to go back to the house so I set off anyway, prepared to suffer.

About 10 minutes later I realized I was running to a faint drumbeat. At first I thought someone who had NOT forgotten their audio equipment had the volume on their iPod turned up to 11. Once I realized the thumping came from the woods themselves, though, it wasn’t too long before I spotted the drummer, dressed more appropriately for jazz than heavy metal in the stylish black-and-white houndstooth jacket and jaunty red cap of a male downy woodpecker. In spite of the bird’s diminutive size—no more than 6” from head to tail-tip and weighing in at an ounce or less—his wardrobe set him apart on that overcast day from the slate-and-silver hickory bark backdrop.

Downy’s are capable of making a noise disproportionate to their size. When a woodpecker is looking for a mate or claiming a territory, the sound of drumming needs to carry; building a nursery cavity using a beak as a jackhammer isn’t quiet either. But if you’re in the woods and the beat is more bongo than bass, hunger is probably acting as the drummer’s muse. A gentle tap, tap, tap betrays hollow spots beneath the bark where wood-boring insect larvae wait.

Woodpeckers can really stick out their tongues (Florida Center for Instructional Technology, used with permission)

Once dinner has been detected, things get… interesting. That short chisel of a beak hardly prepares you for what’s inside—like many other woodpeckers, the downy has a barbed, sticky, and flexible tongue so long it wraps around the skull when at rest. If ever there was a bird ready-made for rock ‘n roll, it’s the woodpecker. Gene Simmons got nothin’ on these headbangers.

The whole tone of my morning changed in an instant. It’s so easy to carry a personal soundtrack wherever I go that I forget about everything I normally tune out when I turn up the volume. As a result of my oversight, I suddenly had a standing-room-only ticket to a great live performance, one I would surely have missed had this excursion proceeded according to plan. My run could wait. I stayed for several encores and gave that downy an enthusiastic round of applause as he flew off toward his next gig.

[This post was originally published in January 2011. Hope to have a new installment ready for prime-time soon.]

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